The Frost Fair

    'I was consumed with hatred,' said the other with indignation, 'but not for that reason. My wife never even met that slimy Italian.'

    'We found letters that proved otherwise,' said Christopher, holding them up.

    'Then they are forgeries, sir. Miriam loathes foreigners as much as I do. She'd never let that fencing master within a mile of her.' He snatched the two letters and read through them. 'These were not written by my wife,' he asserted.

    'Are you certain?'

    'Of course, I'm certain,' said Sir Humphrey, thrusting them back at him, 'and I resent the implication that my wife has been unfaithful to me. Miriam would never do such a thing.'

    'But the letters bear the initial of her name.'

    "Thousands of other women in London have names that begin with 'M". Any one of them could have written those letters. No, wait,' he said as his memory was jogged. 'I saw Jeronimo Maldini when women were around. He could not resist using that oily charm on them. He always addressed a lady by the same name. Yes, there's the answer, Mr Redmayne,' he decided. 'That 'M' does not stand for Miriam. It stands for Madonna. That was what he always cooed in their ear.'

    Christopher was disappointed. As a result of his talk with Pietro Maldini, vital new evidence had come to light and it was buttressed by Jonathan's discovery at the lodging once occupied by the man's brother. The two friends had come to the same conclusion yet now, it seemed, it was woefully wrong. Unwilling to believe anything that Sir Humphrey told him, Christopher pressed him time and again but the man remained adamant. In the end, Christopher was forced to accept the possibility that he was actually telling the truth. If his wife were not implicated, Sir Humphrey would have no compulsion to seek revenge.

    'I did not kill Jeronimo Maldini,' affirmed Sir Humphrey, 'nor was I involved in any plot to do so. What I do know is that your brother is innocent and I want the real culprit caught. Apart from anything else, it will stop you from hounding me any more.'

    Christopher was abashed. 'Who did write these letters, then?'

    'Let me look at them again,' said the other, taking them from him.

    'All that I saw before was that my wife could not have written them. It's not her hand.' He studied the looping calligraphy. 'But I fancy she might tell you whose hand it was.'

    'You recognise it, Sir Humphrey?'

    'I've seen something very much like it, though I could not be sure. I've only ever observed this looping style on invitation cards that we've received. Yes,' he said, studying each of the letters in turn. 'It's a distinctive hand, no question of that. My wife could be more certain about it but I could give you a possible name for the writer.'

    'Who is the lady?'

    'Rose Crenlowe,' said the other. 'She's Martin's wife.'

    Rose Crenlowe was a short, slim, dark-haired young woman with a beautiful face that was distorted by suffering. Her brow was wrinkled, her eyes were bloodshot and her pretty mouth drooped at the edges. The last of her tears were still drying on her cheeks. Wearing a plain dress and with her hair unkempt, she sat huddled on the bed in the attic room. When she heard a key being inserted in the lock, she drew instinctively away. Her husband came into the room with a tray of food for her. His manner was curt.

    'Eat this,' he said, putting the tray down on the table. She shook her head. 'Do as I tell you, Rose!' he warned. 'I'll stand no more of your games.'

    'I'm not hungry, Martin,' she whimpered.

    'You must keep body and soul together.'

    'Why? What's the point?'

    'You know very well. If this food is not eaten by the time that I come back, there'll be trouble, Rose. Do you hear?' She said nothing. 'Do you hear?' he repeated.

    'Yes, Martin.'

    "The man is dead. Forget him.'

    'I'll never do that,' she said with a show of spirit.

    Crenlowe raised a hand to strike her and she cowered on the bed. The blow never came. There was a loud banging on his front door and the sound echoed up through the house. The goldsmith went out on the landing and listened as a servant opened the door. When he heard who had called to see him, he locked the door of his wife's room and went quickly downstairs. With his hat in his hand, Christopher Redmayne was waiting for him in the hall.

    'Good day to you, Mr Crenlowe,' he said. 'I was told at your shop that I'd find you at home today. I crave a word with you, sir.'

    'Must it be here? I'd prefer to talk to you this afternoon at the shop.'

    'The matter is too serious to be postponed.'

    'Oh?' said Crenlowe guardedly. 'You have news for me?'

    'Yes,' said Christopher. 'The man who pretended to be Captain Harvest has been arrested. My friend, Mr Bale, apprehended him at Sir Humphrey Godden's house.'

    'What was he doing there?'

    'Causing profound embarrassment, by the look of it. He'll not be in a position to do that again for a very long time. I need to raise a sensitive matter with you,' he went on, lowering his voice, 'and it may help if your wife is present.'

    'My wife is not at home.'

    'Your servant just assured me that she was.'

    'Rose is not available,' said Crenlowe sharply. You have my word on it. If you wish to speak to me, then perhaps you'll step in here,' he added, taking his visitor into the parlour. 'I hope that your stay will be brief. I need to get back to my work.'

    'Then let me broach that delicate subject, Mr Crenlowe,' said Christopher, watching him closely. 'Were you aware of any connection between Signor Maldini and your wife?'

    Crenlowe paled. 'Of course not! What are you suggesting?'

    'That you had the best motive of all to see the fencing master dead.'

    "This is nonsense, Mr Redmayne!'

    'If you'd been cuckolded by the man -'

    'No!' howled the other, bunching a fist. 'That's not true!'

    'I have letters from your wife that Signor Maldini kept at his lodging. They leave no room for doubt, Mr Crenlowe.' He took them from his pocket. 'Do you wish to see them?'

    'Put them away! Rose could never have written them.'

    'I'd need your wife's confirmation of that.'

    'I've told you, Mr Redmayne. She's not here.'

    'Yes,' said Christopher, 'but I've reached the stage where I do not believe a word that you tell me. You visited Henry in prison to give the impression that you were concerned about him when, in point of fact, you were the man responsible for putting him there. When you heard that I was trying to clear Henry's name, you offered to help so that you could keep an eye on any progress that I made. Then we come to the jewellery that Signor Maldini commissioned from you,' he continued, putting the letters back in his pocket. 'You refused to admit that it ever existed and I think that I know why. The fencing master played a cruel trick on you.'

    'Be quiet!' shouted Crenlowe.

    'He wanted you to design a piece of jewellery that he'd give to your own wife.'

    Crenlowe went berserk. Rushing at Christopher, he pushed him back with both hands before darting across the room to snatch up a rapier that stood in the corner. He came forward again with murder dancing in his eyes.

    'He mocked me, Mr Redmayne,' he said, taking up his stance. 'He was not content with stealing my wife's affections from me, he mocked my trade by getting me to fashion some jewellery that he'd give to her in secret. Can you think of anything more despicable than that?'

    'Yes,' said Christopher. 'Stabbing a man in the back then letting my brother go to the gallows for the crime. That's what I call despicable, Mr Crenlowe.'